St Louis, 1814

A fox, I have heard, heeds
the vole moving

through the grass from
one hundred yards off,

hillocked ears open
to the current of sound.

I walk the cobbles & strain
my mark. For what stirrings

am I attuned? Rumble
of the corduroy roads, over

which worn wagons haul
whiskey, flour, sage, &, I pray,

cloth thicker than muslin.
Or the slow bricking in

of hinterland & hollow?
The mew of a child – mine,

yes, or the hushed ghosts
wandering field & prairie,

which gather at the river,
but are too light, too made

of moongust, to ride the runnel
to headwater or home.